Lethal Flip: A Home Renovator Mystery, #3

By M. E. Bakos

 

Flipping houses can be LETHAL!

 

Katelyn is back with an easy breezy home renovation project in Crocus Heights, Minnesota. It's a breath of fresh air. No drama or bad juju. The split entry house needs cosmetic work, painting and flooring, nothing an experienced Home Rehab Specialist can't handle.

But nothing about this flip is easy.

When investigators remove the neighbor's wife, deceased, she is curious and alarmed. A murder in the neighborhood will only discourage buyers. The spouse is handsome, charming, and overcome with grief.

Katelyn can empathize; she's a widow. Her BFF, Myra, is preoccupied with a ghostbuster and rebuilding a house in Hiptown. Don Williams, the hunky sheriff, wants to be 'friends.' Ex-hubby, (it's complicated) is talking marriage with his girlfriend Lola. Katelyn's handyman, Wayne, is on an extended vacation with Gillie, his girlfriend. Katelyn has her rescue cat, but he isn't very good at conversation.

It's a fun ride as Katelyn uses amateur sleuthing skills to find the killer, while her rehab goes from creampuff to nightmare. Is it the plumber, carpet layer, an angry ex-husband, the mob, or an owl?

What else can a lonely house flipper do, except play detective?

                                                __________________________

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. E. Bakos
• Release date: Dec 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215612255

M. E. Bakos

M.E. Bakos writes cozy mysteries about a house flipper, turned sleuth, in fictional Crocus Heights, Minnesota. The “delightful” series earns five-star reviews from Readers Favorite. Her mystery short stories receive kudos. She has published several short stories in SINC anthologies, and was a regular fiction contributor to national women’s magazines. If she isn’t plotting mysteries, she’s planning home improvements.  Mary lives with her husband, Joe, and spoiled pooch in Minnesota. Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Prologue

We met the ghostbuster in Hiptown in the sleepy, early dawn at the site where my last flip had gone terribly wrong. My name is Katelyn Baxter and I’m a Home Rehab Specialist. Renewing houses is my passion.

I’m Bernie. Glad to meet you! He stuck out his hand and gripped my BFF Myra Alexandria Payten’s hand. He turned to me and did the same, saying, I specialize in moving spirits into the light, perform weddings, and I’m a Lyft driver. When you call me, you get a full-service ghostbuster, driver, and wedding official! He delivered his spiel in a high-pitched voice, grinning, showing coffee-stained teeth. He appeared to be a slick operator with dark eyes and brown wiry hair which was thinning on top. His trim build was solid. I guessed him to be thirtysomething.

The wild look in his eye matched the intensity of his energy. He toted a boom box and a backpack. He unzipped his pack to display several sage bundles. He focused his piercing look on Myra. We’re going to get this ghost gone, man.

She blinked. How?

I’ll put on some kick butt tunes and light the sage. We’ll dance. Chase him out. You on board?

Why would we dance? Myra gulped.

Ghosts hate music. Sage cleans the space.

I don’t dance, she said bluntly.

That’s okay. You can move your arms, he said, with a wink and another grin.

We get the sage. We’ve done that a couple of times. I interrupted the two. I’ll dance. Myra looked uncomfortable. Her jaw was tight and her shoulders tensed as if she might bolt.

I’d do a jig if it meant getting rid of the ghost. I felt guilty that Myra had bought the house from me, ghost included, before we knew the land was haunted. To be fair, once upon a time the dwelling had been in her family, so she wasn’t totally in the dark. Dancing was the least I could do.

Ready? Bernie loaded the disc player. It was surreal as the theme song from the old movie blared, Ghostbusters!

I rolled my shoulders, getting into the rhythm. Myra, her face stoic, lightly lifted her hands and swayed with the music. I did the moon walk, à la Michael Jackson. Bernie shook his head in the manner of a head banger, and swiveled his hips, enjoying the momentum. Suddenly, we heard Awaaaaill in a tortured tone. Awaaaaaill.

There was a puff of smoke from the planting bed beside the old garage. Myra gasped. The music player went silent. We quit dancing.

Did we do it? Is the spirit gone for good? I whispered.

Bernie winked and grinned. Yep. Might be. We’ll light the sage now. 

Oh, Myra said, inhaling. Is that necessary? Her complexion had paled with a greenish cast. I felt a little sick to my stomach, too.

Best to be thorough. We’ll start with the spot where the smoke appeared, then trek the edge of the lot, Bernie said, his voice a high tenor. The traffic was picking up. The Hiptown lot was a street over from the main drag, and the sounds from vehicles threatened our mission.

He dug out the sage bundles and plates. Lighting each bunch, he handed them off. We’d better hurry.

Amen, I said, and hurriedly crossed myself. Myra hesitated, then did the same. The ghostbuster led the way to the garage spot, holding the plate with the sage above his head, the smoke wafting into the area.

I mimicked his movements, and Myra sighed, following suit. One by one, we marched with a container of sage held high around the border of the grounds. When we finished the perimeter, the ghostbuster motioned to the home’s foundation, where the footings were ready for the cement pour. Myra and I glanced at each other and followed him as he rounded the area and stopped at the garage site.

Done. Bernie blew out his bundle. We quickly snuffed out our packets.

Everything all right? An early morning runner called. He’d stopped en route to the lake. Dressed in a gray t-shirt, shorts, and wearing a cap to shield his eyes from the dawning sun, he stretched his muscular legs while he observed us.

We’re good! I yelled. Myra nodded.

Thanks, man! Bernie bobbed in agreement. He collected our plates and the remaining sage, stashed the dishes in his pack, zipped up, slipped the pack on his back, and hoisted the boom box.

The runner surveyed our group. We must have been a spectacle, even for the jaded city dwellers of Hiptown.

Okay. He shrugged and ran off.

So, we’re done? I asked Bernie, ghostbuster, Lyft driver, and marriage officiator.

Yep. He stood and said loud enough for any passersby, his head bobbing, Your space is clear. This place is gonna be awesome!

Myra and I looked at each other.

How can you be so sure? Myra asked.

Everything is as it is. You are where you are. Myra handed him a check and, loaded with his wares, he strolled to the sidewalk, and sauntered across the street to the lakeside path. The sun rose higher in the sky and robins chirped. We watched his back until he disappeared.

What does that mean? I burst out, laughing.

Who knows? Myra sniffed, her brows creased, and she scanned the lot. It seems better. It was brighter with the sunlight filtering through the trees to the site. The air smelled fresh. The day was warming.

You know. It does. I cocked my head and studied the site. I’m sure it will be a great home!

I think so, too. Like Bernie said, ‘It’ll be awesome!’

Our job is complete, I said, and gave her a light hug. I’m off to the flip. My newest renovation project was an easy-peasy, cosmetic refresh in my old stomping grounds of Crocus Heights, Minnesota. I wanted less traffic and drama after the Hiptown project had gone up in flames.

I’m meeting with the contractor for the new house, Myra said, and checked her watch. Oops. I’d better go.

Good luck!

She waved and hurried to her black SUV parked on the street overlooking the couples lake in Minneapolis.

I lingered, scanning the lot for the new construction. I hope this does the trick.

Mulling over Myra’s new building project, I headed to my white hatchback, eager to start my newest project.

Flipping homes is how I make my living since I quit my job at the hospital. Okay, maybe it was mutual. Well, maybe it was more their idea than mine. I won’t bore you with the details, except to say it wasn’t pretty.

Rehabbing houses has been more challenging than I’d expected, but this new project on Warbler Street promised to be peaceful. Until later that day.

Chapter 1

O h dang, not again ! Boots, my Tuxedo cat, surveyed me coolly from his perch on the counter while he licked his paws. Easy for you to say. Remember what happened at Hiptown? He wrinkled his nose. Like the old comedian said, I get no respect.

I watched the ambulance, police, and fire rescue activity from the picture window. Rescue workers walked a gurney out of the home across the street to the waiting ambulance. They’d covered the form on the transport from head to toe with a sheet. The EMTs loaded the body while two officers talked to the homeowner.

Boots, stay here while I check it out. I dropped my broom and trotted outside, lingering on my lawn with two others who’d ventured out to see what had transpired. The officers were talking to Fernando Garcia, the jovial, happy-go-lucky homeowner I’d met while evaluating the split-level dwelling on Warbler Street.

I think Sarah had been ill, a woman chimed. That’s her husband. The handsome, bronzed-skinned man. He’s very friendly. She kept her maiden name, Anderson. She was a chatty, fiftyish, plump gal who lived in a tidy rambler next to my split. I’d seen her out mowing her lawn and walking a small white dog."

I saw blood on the sheet, another neighbor, a man, said.

Oh my! The talkative woman gasped and the three of us stared.

I spotted Don Williams, the local sheriff and my reluctant love interest pulling up in his squad. He leaped out, the silver in his blond hair catching the light, shoulders squared, and jaw firm, as he joined the officers and husband of the deceased. I left the neighbors on the lawn, caught Don’s eye, and moved in closer.

She was being treated for vertigo. I came home from work for lunch and found her in the kitchen. There was blood all over. I called 9-1-1. I don’t know what happened, the dark-eyed husband recounted. His attitude had been open and disarming when we met, but he shook now, wiped his brow, and blotted his face with a handkerchief taken from his back pocket.

The medical examiner will determine the cause of death. Until then, the residence is a crime scene. Let the detectives do their job, Don said. We’ll need you to come to the station for an interview. Two men escorted the distraught spouse to a squad and drove away. The ambulance left the scene, the sirens silent.

By this time, I stood next to the sheriff.

Katelyn. You again, he said with a brief smirk.

I always show up wherever there’s a dead body, I snarked. I was peeved about our standoffish relationship. It didn’t help that I found him great looking, albeit aloof. I gave him credit for showing up with an apology pizza the last time he’d visited. It was the least he could do when he was interested in someone else. Or so I thought. He’d never explained the perky redhead he’d been with and said it was best if we were just friends. Yeah. Right.

Just then the white sewer/drain cleaning truck I’d seen a few times roared past, throwing up dust as it rumbled through the neighborhood. Randy’s Plumbing truck advertised his business with a picture of a leaking faucet on the side panels.

Lord, please don’t let me have any water problems.

Are you okay? The sheriff watched as I paled with the silent prayer. My last flip had been a nightmare with water complications, and the mere presence of a plumber made me squeamish. Not to mention the resident spirits that had made the renovation untenable.

I’m fine. What happened?

We’re investigating the woman’s death, he said. Why are you here?

I pointed to the split-level. It’s my newest project. A creampuff. A little cleanup, painting, and flooring replacement. It has a newer roof. The original siding has been updated to vinyl. No maintenance, I crowed.

You bought a rehab in a neighborhood where a death just occurred. His eyebrows shot up and he gave me a weary glance.

Hey. Just what are you saying? I stood my ground and stared him down. I’m sure my hair was a full-blown, dark brown disaster, and I probably had dirt on my face from sweeping out the garage.

Harrumph. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. You have a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He stared at the renovation. The place looked dismal. The lawn needed mowing, and the bushes begged trimming. Everything needed cleaning. My old, but spunky Ford Festiva in the driveway needed a car wash too.

I resent that, I sputtered.

Where’s Wayne? he asked. Doesn’t he help with your rehabs? Wayne Hamer is my handyman.

Visiting his daughter in Michigan. He took Gillie with him. The two seniors had been seeing a lot of each other, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they made it permanent. Gillie, or Mrs. Greta Gilman, had challenged his attitude towards commitment, and it looked as if they might make it a legal union. Both are my neighbors at the townhouses where I live.

You’re working alone? He frowned. No Myra?

She’s at the Hiptown house. I can handle myself, and I have my cat for company. Boots, my rescue cat, is a good listener, but not so good at conversing.

I took a deep breath and gestured toward the ranch-style house from where the woman had been removed. Do you think she was murdered? I asked, alarmed.

He dodged my question, and his gaze narrowed. So, Wayne and Gillie are away?

Crocus Heights is a safe area, I protested. My heart warmed with the thought that Don Williams worried about my working alone, and being at home without neighbors nearby.

You know, he said, and he focused laser eyes on mine, bad things happen in good neighborhoods, too.

Great, I muttered under my breath.

Be aware of your surroundings. Keep your doors locked. Take normal precautions. He relaxed, and chuckled. I know you can handle yourself. Boots is no slouch, either. The cat had come to my defense and attacked a bad guy from my last project, causing the creep much pain and many scratches.

This part of town has an abundance of wildlife. Watch out for owls. We’ve had reports of the birds attacking cats and small dogs.

Owls? I was incredulous.

A female owl will attack if she feels threatened. Especially when protecting her young, Don said. Great horned owls can attack small mammals.

Is that so? I glanced toward the backyard, which was bordered by a large wooded lot. The residence was on a path to the river, full of mice and small animals that the creatures like for food.

Yep. They’re fierce. They’re called the Tigers of the Air, Don said. It’s their nesting season and they may have a new brood. Their talons are dangerous weapons if they’re riled.

It was late March. Snow was still possible. April rains would clean up the crusted remains of the winter landscape, if Mother Nature didn’t dump more of the white stuff.

I’ll watch out for owls. When will we know anything about the death? I asked, gesturing towards the neighbor’s residence. Crime scene tape was stretched across the door.

There is no ‘we,’ Katelyn. The only person who needs to know is the husband, he said firmly.

This could affect my resale value, if the death isn’t natural or an accident, I protested. I’m not being snoopy.

Uh huh. He viewed me, skeptically. The authorities will investigate. It’s best you get back to work.

Friends is just fine with me, I grumbled, as I left. Just fine.

What did you say? he called as I reached the edge of my property.

Nothing. I grimaced and shrugged. I wouldn’t let the sheriff get the better of me. I’d had a decent day at the job. I’d made a dent in cleaning and prepared a list of repairs. Boots had been a fabulous, albeit quiet, companion. It worried me it wasn’t a slam dunk that the woman died of natural causes. I’d keep an eye on the handsome husband, and be alert for owls. It’s the spouse who has the most to gain financially when a wife dies, and I’d make a point of talking to him, if only to satisfy my curiosity.

I went inside and gathered my cleaning supplies and equipment, and stored them in a corner for the next day’s work, then coaxed Boots into his carrier.

Let’s get some chow. I grabbed my messenger bag, and headed home. It was dinnertime, and I was famished. My lunch was a snack, and I’d kept going all day fortified by strong coffee.

The exterior of my four-unit complex resembles a stately English Tudor-style residence, with a stucco finish and wood beams as accents. Besides the appeal of looking like a single-family dwelling, the central hall entrance has the added benefit of sheltering each unit entry from rain and snow.

Oh, oh. I spotted Eddy Pascal’s pickup in the parking lot as I drove up and parked in my garage. He wasn’t in his truck, which meant he let himself in.

Eddy is renting my Bluebird Street rehab and has a habit of showing up, calling me Wifey to annoy me, and saying weird stuff, like, We could get married again. We’d married as teenagers, divorced after a year of fighting, but remained friends.

Later, I’d married Jake, and lost him. I tell most people he died in an accident, cleaner that way. Saying he’d died saving the life of a youngster who’d been playing with his cell phone while walking on railroad tracks is too much information, until you get to know someone.

Life with Eddy was always a surprise. Like when he lost jobs, or got another one, or took up with a woman, and left that one for another. He meant well, but his follow-through wasn’t always the best.

I stopped at the letterboxes outside the homes and plucked out the mail for Wayne, Mrs. Gilman, and myself. I’d promised to collect the mail for the couple while they were on vacation. When I reached my door, the first unit, I took a deep breath and went in.

Katie! Eddy chortled from his sprawled position on the sofa. He had a remote in one hand, a beer in the other. His deep brown eyes danced, and I treaded warily. Boots yowled from his cage while I